The Gray and the Black

It mattered little that every move was almost painful, as she came alive to someone other than her gentleman. The dance was beautiful and nearly indecent, every move of hers was a question and an answer of its own. It questioned only to draw in.
Uncle Mortimor was not pleased. He stood up and moved to the desk, where he busied himself looking over some odd papers.
“This will cost some,” he broke in at one point, as Lord Maximilien responded with an approving nod to a remark of Lupin’s.
“As you well know, mon ami, the cost is – pas important,” he replied politely, almost with amusement. Lupin was not so flippant. Her eyes darkened at Uncle Mortimor’s remark, but there was little she could do for his discomfort with the ruse. It made no difference to her. Her only way out of this nightmare – her only way of getting her Lord Grefham out of her nightmare – was this way. She joined her hand above her head to Lord Maximilien’s and circled slowly and sinuously; she signed her own warrant to death – a death in society she had already taken. And her release to freedom, Lord Grefham’s release to safety. Uncle Mortimor glowered more intensely at his papers.
Her mind’s eye flashed as she looked deep into Lord Maximilien’s light, facetious eyes. Lord Grefham – it was all gray, gray, gray… waves and rocking and despair. She broke away, her cheeks suddenly ashen. Her eyes grew intense, and her jaw clenched. She clutched her stomach unthinkingly and her spine stiffened. “No.” She stated, whispering. The word was compelled from her – the energy behind it was incredible. He would not – he must not. He must not leave her so far. So far. He could be with her – they could have had some time together. She breathed three large and intense breaths. It was the only thing in her ears – gasps that rasped from deep within. Then she turned and wrenching open the door, she ran from the room.
She found herself on the stairs to the attic, far above. She shook herself. She was in a madness.
She clenched her fist around the banister and slowed her breathing with effort, and with a great deal of self-loathing, she gingerly tried to convince herself that there was no way of knowing the state of Lord Grefham. She only knew he had been in danger with her and he was safer without her. That had been too strong to deny. But she did not really know anything. Only that she had had to leave. She knew nothing. She knew nothing. She was only a person. She breathed slowly, but the franticness would not leave. She took her skirt in her hand and she clenched it very slowly. The fabric wrinkled and then released. It was left with lines lashing across it. It would forget the fist. And so would he forget their time together. She viciously ignored a lancing pain that ran through her at that. But she shook her head. She must try not to reach out to him. She would only destroy him. Her shoulders shook with deep sobs that she choked back. Leaning her forhead on her fist as it gripped the graying wood of the old railing, she closed her eyes very tight, and sinking into the dark world of her mind, she shook with the pain.

Artistic License

The following day she descended the stairs at the bidding of Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien to show her feminine arts. With calm worry she entered the beautiful gold and lavender salon, knowing for a certainty that she would never know what should be known as a lady of Parisien society. She knew also, however, that few of the Parisiens knew who – or what – she should be. That rendered her at an advantage. She lifted her chin. She was the unknown, and as such, she could be as she wanted. She strode quietly into the room, as Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien sat by the fireplace, conversing acrimoniously between them. Uncle Mortimor was not pleased; his face was pinched, and there was a brown frown between his brows.
Lord Maximilien straightened the lace falls of his sleeves in patent ignorance of Uncle Mortimor’s feelings. If anything, he looked thoroughly content with himself. Uncle Mortimor watched Lupin from beneath a creased brow.
Lupin stilled next to a small table, and let her surveyed the tableau by the fireplace. She lifted one brow slightly, and Uncle Mortimor turned his head away, as if he could not palate the look of her confidence. Lupin’s eyes frowned for a moment, and she raised her chin, looking a question at Lord Maximilien, who now surveyed her over his crossed hands atop his graceful ebony cane.
Lord Maximilien twinkled at her. “Il faut seulement apprendre l’art de dalliance…” he began, and then reacting to Uncle Mortimor’s dingy silence, began again. “It must only learn the art of – flirtation – of dalliance!”
Uncle Mortimor was staring now entirely at the tips of his shoes. “This was to be simply a ruse for a short while, Auguste,” he said low and neatly.
“Mais oui – but a good one, no?” He turned to Lupin confidingly “It must be a good one, must it not, enfante?”
Lupin took his measure for a mere half moment. “A good one – yes.” She said simply. But there was something not quite trusting in her eyes if anyone had cared to look.
Uncle Mortimor stared at her acutely. “I see that perhaps you want to be a member of the demimonde for ever. There shall be no moving back again from this.”
“No.” Replied Lupin, and moving to the fireplace, she leaned over it but for a moment, as if wilting, then straightening, she turned. If one could call her posture straight upon her movement. She was upright, but coquettish, almost sinuous – her movements quick and neat, yet also soft – and alive, like they were energetic of their own accord. Every gesture seemed to be a dance of seduction. It was a sudden change, and almost subtle. But it made an effect. “Lord Maximilien,” she queried, advancing towards him, and circling his chair, “will you dance with me?” she whispered in his ear, bending but a moment, then whirling away in a graceful arc. “She looked at him with her chin up to the side, and looked down shyly for but a moment. “Bien sure, enfante,” replied the Lord Maximilien, and setting his cane aside, came towards her, his small, elegant stature setting hers off to pretty effect.

Envie de Vert

Lupin took in her surrounding silently, though there was little else silent about the room. French women of every order seemed to fill every corner, though there were but five of them. Each surface was draped with a different cloth of some rich and wonderful colour. Each tone shimmered and deepened – there was no black, no gray, no dank colors of England; every shade bespoke seasons and sunlight, promised seduction and delight. Lupin’s eyes looked steadily at an apple green that sat forgotten in a corner. They narrowed, and then lowered, her spine stiff. The mayhem continued about her unabated, the chatter and the exclamations of wonder and disparagement. In the corner, Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien conversed together calculatingly: Uncle Mortimor lowering his head consideringly as Lord Maximilien spoke something softly and brightly in his ear, looking pointedly towards Lupin.
Suddenly Lord Maximilien’s voice rang out like a small bell in the room, “Essayez le vert. Le vert! Le vert!” The apple green was brought over and draped consideringly over Lupin’s shoulders, brought under her chin, and someone softly piled her hair upon her head. Lord Maximilien clapped his hands, “Exactement! C’est parfait – et, je suis certaine,” he continued, turning gracefully with his cane, and pointing to a flame-colored silk, “Le rouge aussi. Il n’ya pas de doute. C’est fini.”
“No,” said Lupin quietly.
Lord Maximilien turned towards her, his eyes sparkling oddly, “Qu’est-ce que ca, mon enfant?” he questioned very politely. “I will not wear the green – le vert – ce n’est pas possible,” she spoke slowly, her French a little painful, but dignified and steady nevertheless. “Ce n’est pas possible,” she said again, her eyes softer, her spine still very straight, “je m’excuse.” Her head lowered, but she raised it again, pushing up her chin. Uncle Mortimor was watching her strangely; he rose and came to his friend’s side. “L’oblige, mon ami,” he asked, putting his hand on his friend’s slight shoulder. “L’oblige.”
Lord Maximilien looked piercingly at Lupin for a very long moment. Something undefinable changed in his eyes, and his lips smiled softly, “Le vert,” he said, quietly. “But for your own use only,” and his accent was very strong. Lupin held her chin higher. “Thank you,” she said simply, and stepped from the stool.

Fire

"Lord Maximilien's mistress."
"Yes, that is - his mistress in the eyes of society only. For a ruse. For a short while," Uncle Mortimor's voice was tight and tired: worried.
"Ah." replied Lupin calmly. "I see." She did not really think, only knew it was a good ruse. "It won't be expected."
"Yes. It will not be expected." Agreed Uncle Mortimor precisely. They both stared out the window from their respective vantage points.
"Thank you." Said Lupin simply.
Uncle Mortimor started a little, and then looked at her curiously.

Tap, tap, tap TAP! Lord Maximilien's cane made a sharp and echoing sound on the marble fo the salon's floor. Lupin stood in her man's cloack, allowing herself to be circled. She was silent, but she watched him steadily when he came in view, and all her nerves tensed when he was out of it.
"Hem," was the only pronouncement after at least two full minutes of surveillance. Lupin looked at the gentelman oddly, but he was busy shaking out a fine varens-lace handkerchief and holding it gently to each of his powdered nostrils.
Lupin was fairly certain she knew the verdict of the inspection without a word being uttered. Lord Maximileien - he of obviously unnerring good taste in all the finest things - would not be seen fora moment with such a sad piece as herself. Lupin was not surprised. The days of cold hours alone in the townhouse were not days of joyous self-celebration. Every day the same forgotten daughter, forgotten niece. She raised her chin and her eyes flashed. She wasn't a lady anymore. Conventional ideas of her talents, or lack thereof, were of little import. Odd that she could feel nought from Lord Maximilien but a sort of numb buzzing. There was no judgment in the room - good or bad, save for the constant disapproval of Uncle Mortimor, but even that had lessened.
Lupin realized suddenly that Uncle Mortimor and Lord Maximilien were gazine at her. She looked them back straightly, with a slightly raised eyebrow. If he had been there perhaps Lord Grefham would have recognized the expression as one of his own. Uncle Mortimor frowned, and Lord Maximilien looked startled. Then Lupin's eyes flashed.
"Ah!" exclaimed Lord Maximilien, "there is her - " he lowered his chin and shook his head as he uttered it, as if defining some great work of art, "treasure."
Lupin simply continued to look at him, a small frown between her brows, her eyes cold. Uncle Mortimor turned to his friend, curious and a little derisive, "Her gaze?"
Lord Maximilien nodded quickly, his eyes bright, "And her - fire. Her contemplative fire!"
"I don't have any fire," stated Lupin flatly, cruelly. And she turned away. The fire was far away across the gray seas with a tall, stately gentleman. It had left her long ago.
Lord Maximilien sent Uncle Mortimor an arch look under his eyebrows. "How you say. Nevertheless. It shall be seen that you do. It is why Paris shall accept you as - who you shall be." He turned to survey a large portrait of a beautiful woman - no doubt a scion of his. "That and a great deal of artistic license."

A Friend Indeed

Lupin looked down at her hand on the marble of the mantlepiece. It looked white and quiet on the dark stone, and very alone. There was noone to hold that hand - there was no family to go to. All her life depended on her own work - on the work of that very hand so quiet, cold, and tired.
She looked up at Uncle Mortimor. He was watching her, his eyes fairly flat. "I apologize, uncle. Your friend, I know, is to be trusted." She stated it and though she saw he was relieved, another expression - the old disapproval - took its place for a moment. But she continued; the time to question what she knew and did not had passed miles ago. Somewhere outside of the inn as she rolled away from a long fall.
"An offensive."
Uncle Mortimor started at the sudden statement in the quiet. He cleared his throat finely. "Yes, indeed - an offensive. Maximilien recommends that we, er..." He trailed off for a moment glancing down at his hands, and then at her in disapproval once again - but the disapproval was of the plan, not Lupin as she stood alone by the empty fireplace.
Lupin looked at his worry, his anxiety as he studied his fingers, at the frown of discomfort, and the way he shifted. "I am not a lady anymore, Uncle Mortimor - that has been established many times over. There is no returning."
Uncle Mortimor looked up at her, as if angry, but then his eyes lost their sharpness and his shoulders slumped somewhat. "We have decided that you should become Lord Maximilien's mistress."